For those of you who don't know, I got a camcorder for Christmas. It's a great tool, but a little intimidating to this still photographer as I have never really given much thought to capturing motion. I just threw together a few video clips that I have shot in the last week into a thirty-second MPEG and uploaded it to my iDisk. Go to the following URL and download the MPEG called "KoreaScratchPad."
http://homepage.mac.com/fotonotes/
Also, my roommate and fellow photograher Gavin Averill recently updated his website with a series of photos he made during and after Hurricane Katrina while still working for The Hattiesburg American. They are simply amazing. Check out the URL:
http://www.gavinaverill.com/Pages_PhotoJ/katrina%20gallery02/index.htm
Peace. --Notes
Friday, December 30, 2005
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
I would have posted this blog earlier, but I've been searching for Gavin's cats for the past hour or so. Oh, and I watched "Aliens." Love that movie. Game over, man!
No, I didn't forget the Korean Files. I just got distracted by living my life. Yes, I have a life.
"Campus notebooks contain the best ruled foolscape suitable for writing," (...Foolish things. Notebook)
"Casual of Unlimited Pleasure." (In my experience, casual usually leads to unlimited awkwardness down the road. Clothing store window).
It should be noted that when I cite a notebook as a source, I am referring to the material printed on the notebook, not something the child wrote. Millions of notebooks enter circulation with swill such as this stamped on the cover. Do the people who lay these covers out truly not think to pick up a phone and call their friendly neighborhood Native English Speaker and say, "Hey, does this make sense to you?" A few well-spent minutes could save a publishing company years of humiliation.
Hey look, a photograph.
I saw this lady on the way into Nampo-dong Christmas day. Christmas day. Nothing much happened Christmas day, which is EXACTLY the way I like it. Wake up, have a cup of coffee, screw around with my new camcorder, eat pancakes, drink more coffeeand goof off until I'm so fed up with myself that I shower, dress and kick myself out the door. Then I just catch a bus into town and do the same thing in public.
The real action was Saturday night. Before she sailed with the last of her kin for the Undying Lands of maple syrup, hockey legends and cheap beer, Julie spun a yarn for us in which she told of a magical microbrewery near Haeundae that served bottomless mugs of good, homemade beer beside a buffet overflowing with food for a piddling 16,000 won ($15).
Gavin and I suited up and mounted our weaving, speeding, four-wheeled chariot for the long, dangerous ride to Busan Station. No sooner had we stepped off the bus and entered Busan Station than we were swept up in a crush of holiday shoppers. In fact, everywhere we traveled this weekend, people filled every inch of available space.
In a later blog I will explain in detail my theory that Korea suffers from a country-wide case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, but for now just know that when I say Koreans are "space cadets" in public, I'm not playing around: This is the Land of The Terminally Unaware. People walk around like they're the only person in the whole universe. They stop, go, and window shop as if there weren't thousands of other Koreans crammed into the same tiny alleyway with them, careening off of one another like H²O particles in a glass of water.
A lot of foreigners who have lived here for a while like to joke about how some ajummas (old married women) will simply shove you aside if you happen to be in their way, and it's true. On the bus, in the subway, while waiting for coffee; it never fails: Some old lady physically shoves me out of the way so she can find her seat on the bus, train, or snag a cup of joe first.
Added to this problem is the total lack of social ettiquet. No one says 'excuse me.' No one politely says 'I'm sorry' after smashing your foot or apologizes following their subsequent collision with your camera bag. They just keep on walking like nothing happened.
Walking the streets of Busan became an endless game of "chicken" in which the Koreans never turned away. Notice how Gavin's shoulder is about to be buried in the shoulder of the man walking past him.
Gavin, God bless him, took the lead for most of the trip to Haeundae. He punched throug the crowds like an oil tanker lumbering through the fifty-foot waves in an Alaskan gale. With each subsequent collision and the ensuing vacuum of proper manners, Gavin and I got angrier and angrier. New Yorkers don't walk like this.
When people in the states collide with you, they apologize. What was with this rude behavior on the part of Koreans, a group of people who pride themselves on making everything 'just right.' I can't order a cup of coffee without it being perfect. My security guard always makes sure I put my garbage in the correct bin. If I ask for a Big Mac with no mayo, the girl behind the counter starts acting like I just insulted her mother. A Big Mac HAS MAYO YOU IGNORANT FOREIGN DEVIL!!!
As a person who suffers from obsessive-compulsive disorder, these are the unmistakable signs of my disease. I am living, literally, in my own psychological landscape.
As far as navigating this landscape, or should I say 'foolscape,' some had it better than others.
Other people took a break to recharge with soju and fried...squid.
It was hard to find a place to piss. When in doubt, just use the street.
After a brief stop in Seomyeon to geek out at the recently opened Apple Store, we caught a train for the long ride to Haeundae and booze heaven. The stop we wanted was actually the stop past Haeundae. Huge, empty luxury apartment complexes towered over us as we exited the station and stepped into the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the concrete canyons high overhead. The crowds were thinner and the stores were much more expensive than either Gavin or I could afford. I breezed through a Hillfiger "outlet" that sold thirty dollar kahkis for one-hundred and fifty bucks.
If it's Western in origin, expect the price to be huge.
After exploring this soulless landscape for a while, I began to contemplate the true meaning and purpose of Christmas. Living in a giant shopping mall will do that to you. Christmas. Christ. Giving. Love. Freedom. I just couldn't find these qualities in the Korean manifestation of Christmas. Every now and then we'd come across a church built like an afterthought between the monuments to consumeristic gluttony.
However, the spirit of Christmas seemed lost on the Koreans...At least from the perspective of that afternoon. A lot of the country is Christian, so I expected Christmas to be a bonanza of love, fellowship and giving. After a more careful analysis, it turns out that Christmas and Christ's birthday are seperate entities here. As far as I can tell, "Christmas" is interpreted to be this wierd Western holiday where it's perfectly alright to go nuts with one's credit card. "Christ's birthday" is wholy seperate, and it's celebration was much more subtle.
For example, I was walking through the Lotte Underground to work one morning (it's warm down there) when I came across a hardware salesman studying his Bible.
While checking my student's writing journals, I noticed that many of my students expresed dismay at receiving nothing for Christmas and yet spending hours and hours in church.
Dinner was somewhat of a disappointment. Our wanderings did, eventually, lead us to the microbrewery with it's cheesy German-sounding name, and we did, eventually, get 16,000 won's worth of beer. The buffet was a bitter disappointment. For the better part of the day my brain had been conjuring up this mythical feast of turkey, stuffing, and all the fixins.' I saw myself shoveling delicious food into my mouth while knockin' back beer after homemade beer. The beer was good. The canned, bottled, prefab food was nothing to write home about. Add to that more crowds of rude Koreans breaking in line to load up their plates with sausage without even saying 'excuse me.'
I got drunk...Reeeaaaaalllllyyyy drunk. Gavin too.
We went to Seomyeon for some good ole' fashion'd drunken aimless wandering. Well, not totally aimless. Enter random Korean couple.
They tapped us on the shoulder while we were discussing...something. It's strange how fast booze can turn the normally reserved Koreans into social party animals on par with the best of my party animal friends back home. One minute I'm walking with my friend through the streets of Seomyeon and the next I'm in a Hof drinking Cass with a Korean policeman and his girlfriend because they simply refused to let Gavin and I go without a drink.
An hour later I made the mistake of relating the Makalli Man. The Makalli man is this shop clerk at the quickie mart by my apartment. His job is to stock the booze shelves, but as far as I can tell he puts as much of the booze in his gut as in the refrigerator some nights. By the time I make it home every night around 10:30 he is absolutely plowed. As I try to buy eggs or Binches (crackers) or something he'll stumble towards me and invite me to a couple of rounds of Makalli - Unrefined rice wine.
It tastes like alcoholic yogurt (Gavin's words) and is the source for many a throbing headache. Still, I don't want to be rude, and I take a few shots with him, yelling "Kumbe!" as I clink paper cups with the old man in the freezing night air.
As I said before, I related this amusing story to the Korean couple. Their English wasn't all that good. I think all they heard was "Makalli" and "Kumbe!" Before Gavin or I could protest they wisked us off to a restaurant that served nothing BUT Makalli! Part of the reason they approached us was to practice their English. A couple of pitchers of beer and a bowl of Makalli or two was a small price to pay for some free English practice. All in all, I felt they were genuine people, and I appreciated their Christmas cheer. I went home happy that night.
Earlier in the week, Gavin and I treated our banker, Soo-ho, to dinner at my favorite Japanese restaurant. Soo-ho, who never attended a hagwon like ESS or studied extensively in school, is by far the best English speaking Korean I meet on a regular basis. He has walked me through complex tasks such as transferring money home and setting up an online bank account. He is a witty, affable man with a penchant for languages, and I thought it would be nice to take him to dinner in appreciation for all the help he's given me over the past few months.
Among other things my inquiring mind learned that night: Soo-ho has a girlfriend. This is big shit to the Koreans, as it means he might get married and finally get out of his parent's house. No, I'm serious. Koreans live with their parents until they get married. Soo-ho lives with his folks and his girlfriend lives with hers. Being the curious sort that I happen to be, I queried Soo-ho about his relationship further. How, exactly, do you find time or space to, er...?
"I guess that's why they have so many hotels," Gavin answered much later. Indeed.
Well, I got to go to bed. I got a camcorder for Christmas, and you know that means lots of fun for the viewers of SoKoNotes. I hope you all had a great Christmas, and I'll have lots of philosophic ruminating to dispense in my first update of 2006. Peace. --Notes
No, I didn't forget the Korean Files. I just got distracted by living my life. Yes, I have a life.
"Campus notebooks contain the best ruled foolscape suitable for writing," (...Foolish things. Notebook)
"Casual of Unlimited Pleasure." (In my experience, casual usually leads to unlimited awkwardness down the road. Clothing store window).
It should be noted that when I cite a notebook as a source, I am referring to the material printed on the notebook, not something the child wrote. Millions of notebooks enter circulation with swill such as this stamped on the cover. Do the people who lay these covers out truly not think to pick up a phone and call their friendly neighborhood Native English Speaker and say, "Hey, does this make sense to you?" A few well-spent minutes could save a publishing company years of humiliation.
Hey look, a photograph.
I saw this lady on the way into Nampo-dong Christmas day. Christmas day. Nothing much happened Christmas day, which is EXACTLY the way I like it. Wake up, have a cup of coffee, screw around with my new camcorder, eat pancakes, drink more coffeeand goof off until I'm so fed up with myself that I shower, dress and kick myself out the door. Then I just catch a bus into town and do the same thing in public.
The real action was Saturday night. Before she sailed with the last of her kin for the Undying Lands of maple syrup, hockey legends and cheap beer, Julie spun a yarn for us in which she told of a magical microbrewery near Haeundae that served bottomless mugs of good, homemade beer beside a buffet overflowing with food for a piddling 16,000 won ($15).
Gavin and I suited up and mounted our weaving, speeding, four-wheeled chariot for the long, dangerous ride to Busan Station. No sooner had we stepped off the bus and entered Busan Station than we were swept up in a crush of holiday shoppers. In fact, everywhere we traveled this weekend, people filled every inch of available space.
In a later blog I will explain in detail my theory that Korea suffers from a country-wide case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, but for now just know that when I say Koreans are "space cadets" in public, I'm not playing around: This is the Land of The Terminally Unaware. People walk around like they're the only person in the whole universe. They stop, go, and window shop as if there weren't thousands of other Koreans crammed into the same tiny alleyway with them, careening off of one another like H²O particles in a glass of water.
A lot of foreigners who have lived here for a while like to joke about how some ajummas (old married women) will simply shove you aside if you happen to be in their way, and it's true. On the bus, in the subway, while waiting for coffee; it never fails: Some old lady physically shoves me out of the way so she can find her seat on the bus, train, or snag a cup of joe first.
Added to this problem is the total lack of social ettiquet. No one says 'excuse me.' No one politely says 'I'm sorry' after smashing your foot or apologizes following their subsequent collision with your camera bag. They just keep on walking like nothing happened.
Walking the streets of Busan became an endless game of "chicken" in which the Koreans never turned away. Notice how Gavin's shoulder is about to be buried in the shoulder of the man walking past him.
Gavin, God bless him, took the lead for most of the trip to Haeundae. He punched throug the crowds like an oil tanker lumbering through the fifty-foot waves in an Alaskan gale. With each subsequent collision and the ensuing vacuum of proper manners, Gavin and I got angrier and angrier. New Yorkers don't walk like this.
When people in the states collide with you, they apologize. What was with this rude behavior on the part of Koreans, a group of people who pride themselves on making everything 'just right.' I can't order a cup of coffee without it being perfect. My security guard always makes sure I put my garbage in the correct bin. If I ask for a Big Mac with no mayo, the girl behind the counter starts acting like I just insulted her mother. A Big Mac HAS MAYO YOU IGNORANT FOREIGN DEVIL!!!
As a person who suffers from obsessive-compulsive disorder, these are the unmistakable signs of my disease. I am living, literally, in my own psychological landscape.
As far as navigating this landscape, or should I say 'foolscape,' some had it better than others.
Other people took a break to recharge with soju and fried...squid.
It was hard to find a place to piss. When in doubt, just use the street.
After a brief stop in Seomyeon to geek out at the recently opened Apple Store, we caught a train for the long ride to Haeundae and booze heaven. The stop we wanted was actually the stop past Haeundae. Huge, empty luxury apartment complexes towered over us as we exited the station and stepped into the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the concrete canyons high overhead. The crowds were thinner and the stores were much more expensive than either Gavin or I could afford. I breezed through a Hillfiger "outlet" that sold thirty dollar kahkis for one-hundred and fifty bucks.
If it's Western in origin, expect the price to be huge.
After exploring this soulless landscape for a while, I began to contemplate the true meaning and purpose of Christmas. Living in a giant shopping mall will do that to you. Christmas. Christ. Giving. Love. Freedom. I just couldn't find these qualities in the Korean manifestation of Christmas. Every now and then we'd come across a church built like an afterthought between the monuments to consumeristic gluttony.
However, the spirit of Christmas seemed lost on the Koreans...At least from the perspective of that afternoon. A lot of the country is Christian, so I expected Christmas to be a bonanza of love, fellowship and giving. After a more careful analysis, it turns out that Christmas and Christ's birthday are seperate entities here. As far as I can tell, "Christmas" is interpreted to be this wierd Western holiday where it's perfectly alright to go nuts with one's credit card. "Christ's birthday" is wholy seperate, and it's celebration was much more subtle.
For example, I was walking through the Lotte Underground to work one morning (it's warm down there) when I came across a hardware salesman studying his Bible.
While checking my student's writing journals, I noticed that many of my students expresed dismay at receiving nothing for Christmas and yet spending hours and hours in church.
Dinner was somewhat of a disappointment. Our wanderings did, eventually, lead us to the microbrewery with it's cheesy German-sounding name, and we did, eventually, get 16,000 won's worth of beer. The buffet was a bitter disappointment. For the better part of the day my brain had been conjuring up this mythical feast of turkey, stuffing, and all the fixins.' I saw myself shoveling delicious food into my mouth while knockin' back beer after homemade beer. The beer was good. The canned, bottled, prefab food was nothing to write home about. Add to that more crowds of rude Koreans breaking in line to load up their plates with sausage without even saying 'excuse me.'
I got drunk...Reeeaaaaalllllyyyy drunk. Gavin too.
We went to Seomyeon for some good ole' fashion'd drunken aimless wandering. Well, not totally aimless. Enter random Korean couple.
They tapped us on the shoulder while we were discussing...something. It's strange how fast booze can turn the normally reserved Koreans into social party animals on par with the best of my party animal friends back home. One minute I'm walking with my friend through the streets of Seomyeon and the next I'm in a Hof drinking Cass with a Korean policeman and his girlfriend because they simply refused to let Gavin and I go without a drink.
An hour later I made the mistake of relating the Makalli Man. The Makalli man is this shop clerk at the quickie mart by my apartment. His job is to stock the booze shelves, but as far as I can tell he puts as much of the booze in his gut as in the refrigerator some nights. By the time I make it home every night around 10:30 he is absolutely plowed. As I try to buy eggs or Binches (crackers) or something he'll stumble towards me and invite me to a couple of rounds of Makalli - Unrefined rice wine.
It tastes like alcoholic yogurt (Gavin's words) and is the source for many a throbing headache. Still, I don't want to be rude, and I take a few shots with him, yelling "Kumbe!" as I clink paper cups with the old man in the freezing night air.
As I said before, I related this amusing story to the Korean couple. Their English wasn't all that good. I think all they heard was "Makalli" and "Kumbe!" Before Gavin or I could protest they wisked us off to a restaurant that served nothing BUT Makalli! Part of the reason they approached us was to practice their English. A couple of pitchers of beer and a bowl of Makalli or two was a small price to pay for some free English practice. All in all, I felt they were genuine people, and I appreciated their Christmas cheer. I went home happy that night.
Earlier in the week, Gavin and I treated our banker, Soo-ho, to dinner at my favorite Japanese restaurant. Soo-ho, who never attended a hagwon like ESS or studied extensively in school, is by far the best English speaking Korean I meet on a regular basis. He has walked me through complex tasks such as transferring money home and setting up an online bank account. He is a witty, affable man with a penchant for languages, and I thought it would be nice to take him to dinner in appreciation for all the help he's given me over the past few months.
Among other things my inquiring mind learned that night: Soo-ho has a girlfriend. This is big shit to the Koreans, as it means he might get married and finally get out of his parent's house. No, I'm serious. Koreans live with their parents until they get married. Soo-ho lives with his folks and his girlfriend lives with hers. Being the curious sort that I happen to be, I queried Soo-ho about his relationship further. How, exactly, do you find time or space to, er...?
"I guess that's why they have so many hotels," Gavin answered much later. Indeed.
Well, I got to go to bed. I got a camcorder for Christmas, and you know that means lots of fun for the viewers of SoKoNotes. I hope you all had a great Christmas, and I'll have lots of philosophic ruminating to dispense in my first update of 2006. Peace. --Notes
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Gerry Christmas! OK, don't get too excited, it's not a typo. I saw this writen on the chalk board mounted behind the Starbucks counter in Nampo-dong.
Ah-hmmm.
Merry Christmas!!!
Christmas is a time for cheer, a time for hope, a time for tradition. Some traditions, like caroling, giving to the poor and decorating the Christmas Tree are age-old standbys people the world over practice during this special season. Other traditions are more personal, like my Aunt Katy's fig pinwheel cookies made from a recipe stretching back through generations of my family. Even ESS observes a few Christmas traditions in order to bring the spirit of Christmas into our cold, drafty hallways.
"Uh, Stephen, maybe can I ask you something?"
"Yes, Mrs. Nam, of course."
"OK, OK. Are you sure?" I hate it when she asks me that.
"Yes, I'm sure."
"Uh, maybe every year the native teachers I have dress up as Santa Claus."
Do WHAT!?!
"Oh, and please go into the classes like that, too."
Mine and Gavin's Santa outfits were a big hit with the kids. I added the cheesy Elvis sunglasses and sideburns and got rave reviews from my students, who proceeded to relieve me of my accuitriments and try them on for size.
My Advanced 2 class spent the better part of their reading day staging a Santa lookalike contest. How could I stop them? In the back of my head I knew the Korean teacher would subject them to joyless chanting of the same three pages of Amelia Bedelia over and over again for forty-five minutes. Have your fun. Gerry Christmas.
My impression of the children I teach is that they grow up in a fairly rigid social structure spelled out and hammered into them from an early age. When the Korean teachers give instruction, the children are perfect little angels: Obedient, quiet, attentive. They give absolute respect to their Korean teachers just as their social framework prescribes. I obviously don't fit into the social framework.
Somebody needs to add the word "all" in front of "teachers" because the respect given to the Korean teachers leaves the classroom when they do. Any respect I want from the children I have to earn. This usually entails a combination of discipline, dedication and a fair amount of entertainment. Yes, I am an entertainer. It's important to keep in mind that many, of not most of them are not terribly interested in learning English. They didn't come to ESS by any road they themselves selected. They're here so they're parents can forget about them for another hour and a half. This isn't school, these grades don't matter. For the kids who understand this concept, ESS is party time. The implied threat is clear: Entertain me or I'll entertain myself (and drive you nuts in the process).
It's amazing how good I am at fulfilling my end of the bargain. I can dance. I can sing. I could pantomime War and Peace. My Smeagol impression is tops and I draw a mean stick-figure. I've brought in sock puppets, Elvis costumes (see Holloween post) and music, but nothing has quite as mesmerizing an effect on the children as the chun-un monkey.
During his long sojurns through the endless passageways of Nampo-dong, Gavin made two critical discoveries crucial to keeping a group of highly-volatile Korean children from lapsing into utter chaos. First, he discovered the Korean dollar store, and within that cheap-crap respository he found the simple, elegant, made-in-china chun-un monkey.
Exhibit A:
Note the looks of bemusement on the children's faces. For less than a US dollar you can take this fuzzy stuffed hominid home with you. The sight of it whips a class into a highly-focused frenzy: They all want to touch the monkey (OK, please get your head out of the gutter). If the reaction is not brought under control quickly, this frenzy can spin out of control; however, the monkey (which ignited the reaction) can also be used to bring it under control. By simply making possession of the treasured monkey contingent upon being well-behaved, the children become as docile as Welsh sheep.
Gavin is a genius.
For all of you teachers in Korea, go out and buy a chun-un monkey. You won't regret it.
OK, that is the end of part 1 of the Holiday SoKoNotes. For those of you who have an audio player, checkout
http://homepage.mac.com/fotonotes/FileSharing1.html
and listen to your favorite blogger sing Jingle Bells...In Korean.
Part 2 tomorrow. Don't forget. Peace. --S
Ah-hmmm.
Merry Christmas!!!
Christmas is a time for cheer, a time for hope, a time for tradition. Some traditions, like caroling, giving to the poor and decorating the Christmas Tree are age-old standbys people the world over practice during this special season. Other traditions are more personal, like my Aunt Katy's fig pinwheel cookies made from a recipe stretching back through generations of my family. Even ESS observes a few Christmas traditions in order to bring the spirit of Christmas into our cold, drafty hallways.
"Uh, Stephen, maybe can I ask you something?"
"Yes, Mrs. Nam, of course."
"OK, OK. Are you sure?" I hate it when she asks me that.
"Yes, I'm sure."
"Uh, maybe every year the native teachers I have dress up as Santa Claus."
Do WHAT!?!
"Oh, and please go into the classes like that, too."
Mine and Gavin's Santa outfits were a big hit with the kids. I added the cheesy Elvis sunglasses and sideburns and got rave reviews from my students, who proceeded to relieve me of my accuitriments and try them on for size.
My Advanced 2 class spent the better part of their reading day staging a Santa lookalike contest. How could I stop them? In the back of my head I knew the Korean teacher would subject them to joyless chanting of the same three pages of Amelia Bedelia over and over again for forty-five minutes. Have your fun. Gerry Christmas.
My impression of the children I teach is that they grow up in a fairly rigid social structure spelled out and hammered into them from an early age. When the Korean teachers give instruction, the children are perfect little angels: Obedient, quiet, attentive. They give absolute respect to their Korean teachers just as their social framework prescribes. I obviously don't fit into the social framework.
Somebody needs to add the word "all" in front of "teachers" because the respect given to the Korean teachers leaves the classroom when they do. Any respect I want from the children I have to earn. This usually entails a combination of discipline, dedication and a fair amount of entertainment. Yes, I am an entertainer. It's important to keep in mind that many, of not most of them are not terribly interested in learning English. They didn't come to ESS by any road they themselves selected. They're here so they're parents can forget about them for another hour and a half. This isn't school, these grades don't matter. For the kids who understand this concept, ESS is party time. The implied threat is clear: Entertain me or I'll entertain myself (and drive you nuts in the process).
It's amazing how good I am at fulfilling my end of the bargain. I can dance. I can sing. I could pantomime War and Peace. My Smeagol impression is tops and I draw a mean stick-figure. I've brought in sock puppets, Elvis costumes (see Holloween post) and music, but nothing has quite as mesmerizing an effect on the children as the chun-un monkey.
During his long sojurns through the endless passageways of Nampo-dong, Gavin made two critical discoveries crucial to keeping a group of highly-volatile Korean children from lapsing into utter chaos. First, he discovered the Korean dollar store, and within that cheap-crap respository he found the simple, elegant, made-in-china chun-un monkey.
Exhibit A:
Note the looks of bemusement on the children's faces. For less than a US dollar you can take this fuzzy stuffed hominid home with you. The sight of it whips a class into a highly-focused frenzy: They all want to touch the monkey (OK, please get your head out of the gutter). If the reaction is not brought under control quickly, this frenzy can spin out of control; however, the monkey (which ignited the reaction) can also be used to bring it under control. By simply making possession of the treasured monkey contingent upon being well-behaved, the children become as docile as Welsh sheep.
Gavin is a genius.
For all of you teachers in Korea, go out and buy a chun-un monkey. You won't regret it.
OK, that is the end of part 1 of the Holiday SoKoNotes. For those of you who have an audio player, checkout
http://homepage.mac.com/fotonotes/FileSharing1.html
and listen to your favorite blogger sing Jingle Bells...In Korean.
Part 2 tomorrow. Don't forget. Peace. --S
Sunday, December 18, 2005
That's Gavin's shirt standing on our kitchen table.
Before I came to Korea, I was researching the living conditions here and I discovered a peculiarity: There are washing machines in almost every household, but very few dryers. At the time, I found this to be highly irregular. In my admittedly limited experience, washer and dryer were as inseparable as hotdogs and buns. You could not have one without the other, it just didn't make any sense. Luckily, I've done a lot of growing up since then, and my world travel has enlarged my world view.
Plain and simple: It's damn dry here. The humidity, as measured by our digital humidifier, hangs around 25% all day. I first noticed it back in October when my polyester Columbia hiking pants began to generate an indomitable static cling and I started getting a nasty electric shock every time I touched a metal door handle. My lips chap twice as fast as normal and Gavin has been having problems with the skin on his hands cracking and bleeding. If I don't drink enough water before going to bed, I wake up feeling like a mummy. The dry air works wonders on tabletop spills and can suck the water out of damp laundry almost as fast as a consumer dryer. A shirt properly hung on the drying rack in our living room can take on the structural rigidity of thin cardboard. Hilarity ensues. See photo above. Laugh.
Laugh, I say!!!
The dryer is one of the newest Western curiosities to hit Korea. Not many people here have them. Koreans don't even have a proper word for a dryer beyond "machine that dries," though they do have a word for washing machine: "Setaki." Most of my students call the dryer a "drum" and strangely almost none of them seem to know exactly what it does, with good reason. Most of the dryers I see in stores across the city look like the warp drive on the Starship Enterprise, bristling with buttons, digital displays and compartments for trilithium crystals, er...Dryer sheets. They're price tag will steal your breath away.
Speaking of price tags, it's Christmas time! Happy Birthday, Jesus! Cue 'bum' photo.
Sorry Jesus, not much has changed in the last two thousand and five years. Whenever you get a minute, we could really use your help. What that you hear? Oh, it's the sound of millions of credit cards being hustled through their little slotted credit card readers.
Where are all of those people going? Lotte. It's a mall. It's ten floors of every imaginable retailer selling people things they don't need. Am I a what? Yes, I'm a hypocrite. There is a beautiful new digital camcorder with my name on it coming in the mail courtesy of my beloved family.
Please forgive me, Jesus. I sometimes forget why we celebrate your birthday. Christmas is a time for loving, giving and thinking of all the special people in our lives. It's a time to reflect on the year and all the good times we've have in 2005. It's a time to look forward with bright eyes and high expectations because we have a chance to set our mistakes right and make the future a better place to live than the past.
There are some of us who remember what Christmas is about. As I walked around Seomyeon Saturday, I came across a large group of students from Busan Young-sun Middle School. These noble youths had commandeered a wide pedestrian intersection, laid out cardboard mats, and were selling their old clothes, books and toys to raise money for victims of the Pakistani/Indian earthquake. They were creative, vigorous salespeople, using every resource within their grasp to coax passersby into tossing a few hundred won for someone in need.
The weather did its level best to deter them. The intersection was bound on all sides by tall buildings that lowered the temperature and channeled the fierce wind into open coat pockets and zippers. They huddled together like penguins and drank cups of warm hot chocolate.
They're efforts certainly warmed my weary heart. I gave them a few thousand won in exchange for a few photos. The more traditional Christmas charities are also present in Busan. See below.
Thus far, Christmas has had a decidedly low impact on my life this year. This will be my first Christmas without my family, and it's just not the same. My life is filled with a tasteless loneliness that cannot be replaced by things or carols or strangers decorating a tree. I try not to think about it. During the runup to coming here, I figured I was mature enough to deal with Christmas alone.
I was wrong. I miss my family, plain and simple. Everything I've ever known or felt about the holidays hasn't really materialized, like somebody in my brain decided to leave the Christmas decorations in the attic this year. The traditional feelings of Christmas seem to be hiding from me.
In some respects, the sooner Christmas is over, the better.
ESS decided to get in on the holiday spirit. Mr. Ye bought a fake, plastic tree and set it up in the corner next to the third floor door. He strung lights on it and then all of the Korean teachers decorated it with gusto.
Many of the teachers here are fundamentalist Christians of the Presbyterian or Baptist flavor. They're a friendly lot, and they make Christmas feel a bit more, well, American.
This week also marks the 8th Anniversary of Hangul Seodang, the Korean class that Gavin and I attend every Saturday. We heard they were going to have a party this Saturday, so we made sure to attend. The founder of the school gave a speech.
A few more people gave speeches and then it was on to the Indian Dancing. Hold the phone. Did you just say "Indian Dancing?" Yup.
You see, much to my general surprise (and this is yet another damning reminder of how narrow-minded I was before I came to Korea), there are more than just honkies, er, Americans and Canadians, trying to learn Korean. There is Alla, a Russian violin teacher who showed off her virtuosity and played a masterful composition for us by an American (I think) composer.
A Japanese man broke out his clarinet and skillfully filled the room with jazz.
Naturally, we honkies had to flex our musical muscles. Doing the heavy lifting was a Canadian named Wayne, a former ESS teacher, who softly played Bach on his guitar for those gathered. There were video presentations on Turkey, Indonesian and even Uzbekistan. I never figured on meeting so many different people in Korea. It was fun watching and learning about their cultures.
However, we were here for a specific reason: All the delicious food! OOPS! I mean, er, a birthday party. And what birthday party is complete without a cake and candles? Strangely, the cake was six inches of solid Korean "dok," a rice composite that has the consistency of cookie dough and tastes like, well, nothing whatsoever. The man on the right who helped cut the cake said it was unusually difficult to cut.
Saturday night Gavin and I went back to Ole 55 for our weekly Stella Artois. Sadly, the same meat-and-potatoes punk band was playing again, filling our ears with the same tired sets they played the week before. The bar was packed and so we didn't stay long.
Sunday saw me down two cups of coffee and head out towards Haeundae. I wanted to explore the island where APEC had been held: Dongbaek. The island is slightly legendary in Korea. The famous Silla poet and scholar Choi, Chi-won, who upon chancing upon this island during his travels, sat down and carved three words into a rock on the tip of Dongbaek: Sea. Cloud. Hill. Hae. Un. Dae. The Koreans built a huge, outlandish conference building in the shape of an alien spacecraft adjacent to the ancient Silla carving. It was here that the leaders of the Pacific Rim came together, drank tea and talked about the future of billions of people throughout Asia. I had to see the place where my own fearless (tactless, feckless, brainless) leader, President Bush, made his brief appearance.
The long train ride to Dongbaek gave me time to finish my book on theoretical physics. Man, they have got to get an express train in this city. I took these photos from the pavilion where the world leaders met.
The building itself is something Dr. No would be proud of. When I first saw a picture of it I thought it had been built back in the 60s. I'm sorry I don't have a photo of it here. That represents a serious failing on my part as a journalist simply because the building is so ridiculous as to be noteworthy. It's image is on countless billboards throughout Busan. I guess I just am so tired of seeing it I couldn't bring myself to waste a frame on it's visage.
I went and took a peek at the inscription on the rock, which was much more impressive to my mind. The inscriptions were no mere bronze-age graffiti. They were deep, professional routings of the rock's surface. The middle symbol, "un," was badly worn away by the patient hand of the sea. I stared at them for a long time.
A man sat here and was so awestruck by the beauty of nature that he felt compelled to carve his feelings into a rock. This appealed to the part of me that hiked the entire length of the Appalachian Trail back in 2003. Despite the thousands of years between us, I felt instantly connected to this man on a deeply personal level. We shared an appreciation for nature that went beyond reason. I could almost see him sitting there, hiking stick resting on the ledge, chipping away at the hard granite. I bet he'd have some amazing stories to tell.
As for my culture, we don't turn rocks into poems. Our inscriptions are practical and short-lived.
It seems that the architects who designed the ubiquitous high-rise apartment buildings in Busan didn't take into account the fact that the people living in them might actually own furniture. There are no freight elevators in my building. The current rust bucket that carries me to and from my holding block is barely big enough to fit three people, much less a couch or - God forbid - a table or even a big box. The only opening through which you can get big items is the porch window. This presents certain problems when you are moving into a flat on the twentieth floor. Heck, it presents problems when you are moving into the second floor. How do you get all your crap into your trap?
Enter the moving ramp man. For a fee this guy will run a pair of steel tracks up to your window and move all of your things into your apartment with a winch-driven cart. Genius.
Ah, I almost forgot. From the land that slept through English class comes...The Korea Files!
"Bring The Take: Chip Chip Mother Fucker" (Sweatshirt. I'm speechless. I truly don't know what to say to this.)
The following is all from the cover of one of my student's notebooks.
"Wow, it sees there" (It has a subject, verb and an object, and yet it's still not a sentence. Hmmmm)
"We give to everybody the happy 200% bay always. Be sweet and love only be feeling take" (Hey, it's a new slogan for Wal-Mart: Always 200% Bay. Always)
"It pours out honey fully and makes it complete. Ted time is pleasure everyday" (Who is Ted and why is he involved with pleasure time?)
Well, that does it for SoKoNotes. I hope you enjoyed your fifteen minutes of Korea. Peace. --Notes
Sunday, December 11, 2005
clumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclumpclump
“SAAAAAAAAAYTAAAAAAAAAH!”
Ah, time to wake up and greet another day in sunny, freezing cold Korea!
It's getting harder and harder to get out of bed these days. My window has a serious draft, and the heater (an ingenious sub-floor hot-water convection system) spends most of the night fighting to keep the thermometer somewhere north of freezing. I've tried plugging the crack with shirts and the window curtains, but the relentless wind always manages to rip my barrier down and slip into my room while I am sleeping. I combat the thermodynamic theif with my 20-degree down sleeping bag and a thick quilt.
By morning I am as snug and toasty as a hibernating bear, and just as reluctant to leave my warm cocoon. The howling wind outside contributes to my fierce retisence to open my eyes. However, hunger and my bladder conspire against me and usually by the time the laundry lady can be heard clump-clump-clumping towards my wing of Dongsamjugong I'm up and stumbling towards the bathroom.
“SAAAAAAAAAYTAAAAAAAAAH!” Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm up already.
By the time I throw my door wide and enter the land of the living Gavin has been up for an hour and a half, plugging away at the internet, a steel REI mug in his hand and some Bach wafting into the living room. He shoots me this look like he's just seen a ghost.
“Please tell me today is a coffee day,” I growl out and disappear into the bathroom. Gavin laughs.
“Yeah, it is.” Thank God.
Fresh ground Sumatran is ludicrously expensive here, nearly twice what I'd pay Stateside for the same bag of coffee. To extend our stash Gavin and I only drink coffee every other day. On the off days we drink a dry, earthy green tea. It provides half the caffeine and none of the excitement one finds in a cup of dark, smooth Sumatran joe. I live for coffee day.
If it's not coffee day I'll try to wake myself up by taking a walk up Bongnaesan. Simply getting out the door is like jumping out of an airplane. The twenty-knot wind shakes and rattles the windows that line the hallway like an angry, rabid dog. I secure my hat to my head, cinch my hood closed, zip my Gore-tex jacket up to my chin, crank up my iPod and jam my gloved hands in my pockets.
The climb up Bongnaesan is a fat man's nightmare come to life. The grade will steal your breath. Even me, a 2003 Appalachian Trail Thru-hiker (my ego had to get that one in) looks up in stupor at the trail winding upwards from the streets of Young-do. By the time I've reached the top my hat, gloves, and jacket are all off and I'm sweating through my sweatshirt.
The view is worth it, though.
Most mornings I just can't muster the nerve to get out the door. Luckily, the lean Korean diet keeps me from gaining too much weight. I'd love to talk more about the food, but I'm saving that subject for an entire blog update. There is alot to talk about. Well, before I waste too much more time, here it is...
...Strait from the country that played Starcraft when they should have been studying for their English exam comes your favorite sayings, idiotic idioms and mistranslations: The Korean Files!
“I can turn reality into anything” (...With enough alcohol... - student notebook)
“Happy is he who desires what he may and does what he ought” (OK. What, exactly, am I allowed to desire? - Student notebook)
“Romantic Place: How you got me blind is still a mystery. I can't get you out of my head.” (You were also alot uglier until I was rendered sightless. -Student notebook)
“Have A Cool and Happy Thanksmoving” (The little-known holiday celebrated by the British commemorating when the Pilgrims left England. --Sweatshirt)
“Pinky Plinky Death” (...Makes for delicious Pinky Plinky soup. - Sweatshirt)
That was fun, wasn't it? If you just aren't getting enough wacky Asian mistranslation from SoKoNotes, you need to check out www.engrish.com. It's all the fun of SoKoNotes without the annoying guy spouting off useless opinions and posting photo after photo of random old women at busstops.
Oh, but that reminds me. The title of this week's update: Oh, You Mean There Are People Riding My Bus? The Many Species of Busan Bus Driver.
The cold weather mentioned earlier has rendered my motorcycle almost totally useless. Sure, the temperature climbs to a managable 40-degrees (No. Farenheit) in the daytime. I say manageable. The wind still finds and exploits every opening in my plastic and Goretex shell, and in the shade the temperature drops ten to fifteen degrees. At night, riding a motorcycle is to come to a new and horrible understanding of the word 'shrinkidge.' I have to park the bike and drive it home the next day.
So the bus has once again become my primary method of transportation. I actually think I can hear my parents sighing in relief from here. Golden bank tree leaves fill the engine compartment and cling to the spokes in my absence. Sometimes when I walk past it, I cast a sad glance towards the motorcycle, wondering if the cold will break soon so I can don my black helmet and streak through the city to parts unknown.
The bus is a poor stand-in for the motorcycle. It's warm, sure, but it's slow, often crowded, and I don't feel appreciably safer. After a long day of working at ESS there is nothing quite like clinging for dear life to a bar overhead while the driver whips the bus full of people through the streets of Busan like a child might drive an R.C. car. As these nightly trials have progressed, I have become the Charles Darwin of the Urban Jungle and started a bus driver classification system based on the severity and type of driving characteristic.
Ah-hmmm. The Origin of Species...Of Busdrivers In Busan.
Lurchers: There are buses that sway inexplicably from side to side like drunks. I'm not sure if this the driver's fault or some sort of problem with the bus' shock absorbers, but the drivers' general tendancy to drive erradically makes it worse.
Weavers: These are kind of like the lurchers, but this trait can be traced to the driver himself and not to any flaw with the bus. These guys behave like the only other vehicle they've ever driven was a motorcycle. They weave in and out of traffic, hog lanes, and dart rapidly to the curb to pick up passengers.
Slammers: Some drivers seem to know only two positions on the brake pedal: Off and pressed-to-the-floor. I've never had the laws of physics illustrated so forcefully for me as when I am on a Slammer's bus. So THAT'S what Conservation of Momentum feels like.
Jumpers: The opposite of Slammers. Now if only I had 100 won for every ajumma hurled into my arms...
Poppers: No desperate housewives here, only a tragic inability to properly operate a clutch. Busan's busses are old, manual transmission relics from the end of the last century. The worst Poppers can hurl people to and fro like waves turning shells on the shore.
Every now and then you get on a bus and you make it home without getting motion sickness. These good drivers are a rare species, driven to near extinction by pressure to be on what I assume is a very tight schedule. The good people of Busan often spruce up the difficult bus rides with their good heartedness. I cannot count the number of times a passenger sitting down has offered to hold my bags for me until either they or I got off the bus. The drivers are always polite and well-dressed and the busses are always clean and warm.
But I digress.
One of the peculiarities of teaching English is discovering how hard it is to learn English. It is a healthy alteration of perspective when you see how hard it is for someone to differentiate between an R and an L when their native language has neither. It reminds me of a joke a close friend of my father's used to tell about a Chinese restauranteer trying to say 'Fried Rice.' You can guess the punchline. I live it every day.
I teach the 5Ps on Fridays: Basically, the worst of the worst of the worst fifth graders at ESS. I started out with four students, but more and more join the class each week as their Korean teachers weed them out of the higher-level classes. Now I'm up to eight, and on the menu is nothing but meat and potatoes: ABCs, there is, that is, it is, colors, numbers, and simple vocabulary like 'cat.' Last week we studied foods.
I asked the kids what about their favorite foods. The vast majority listed fried rice (Kimchi jigae) as their top choice. To a child, they all spoke it incorrectly: Flied Lice. In Korean, there is a letter called 'leer' that is a difficult-to-pronounce combination of R and L. Try saying 'R' with the tip of your tongue shoved into the roof of your mouth and you'll just about have it. Sometimes it sounds like 'R' and sometimes it sounds like 'L,' depending on the word and the person speaking it. I generally pronounce it like an 'L' and no one corrects me.
To take a leer and split it apart can be confusing for the Korean children. So I give the 'flied lice' speech. I first diagram the 'L' and the 'R' on the chalkboard. Next I write 'fried rice' under the 'R' and draw a bowl of steaming fried rice. The children all scream and rub their stomachs and yell, 'Teach-uh give me. Give me!' Then under the 'L' I write 'flied lice' and draw a human head frowning with little insects jumping all over it. 'Rice' I say and point to the bowl of fried rice. 'Lice' I slowly enunciate while indicating the insects. The class goes silent for a moment and then the realization hits all the children at once. Their eyes light up in disgust and they hold their mouths and shake their heads.
“NOOOOOO, Teach-uh!”
At least for the rest of the class period they pronounce their R's and L's correctly. By next week they're back to their old habits again.
Well, there isn't a whole lot more to talk about from last week except how bloody cold it is and the complexities of learning the English language. On to the photographs.
The shops of Nampo-dong have been closing earlier in response to the colder weather. A month ago this alleyway was thick with people by this time of night. Now it's a good place to get jumped.
These ajummas extend their operational hours by covering their alleyway restaurants with plastic tarps and cranking up a space heater or two. They aren't partial to having their photographs made, as evidenced by the cold look I'm getting here, but they can whip up a plate of steaming, nutritious food in no time flat.
Oftentimes the people eating within the tent are a friendly lot. These men allowed me to photograph them and then they let all but forced me to partake of their food and share few shots of soju...Actually, five. The rest of that night is somewhat of a blur.
If you are in a rush and need something hot to eat, stop by a covered tent.
Gavin and I went to the Busan museum over the weekend. It was better laid out, cleaner and more English-friendly than other museums I have visited in Busan. I learned, for example, that the concrete bridge from young-do to Nampo-dong was made by the Japanese during the occupation between 1910 and 1945. The orange steel bridge that I cross every day to come into work was built by the Koreans.
The Koreans shared very nice relations with the Japanese for hundreds of years, as they were equally capable of kicking each other's butt. However, the British gave the Japanese firearms and unbalanced the equation late in the 19th century. The Japanese invaded and annexed Korea. They oppressed the population, enslaved the women, and built a few bridges before being evicted by the Americans in World War II.
I spotted this museum-goer and took a photograph.
Old men.
Pigeons.
Pigeons and old men, together. Yongdusan park.
The light is fabulous in the city.
Gavin and I went to the re-opened Ole' 55 bar Saturday night. They had a punk band come in and cover a few Beatles songs. They were skilled musicians, but terribly unoriginal in their style. This was their lead singer. When he wasn't singing, he was...
...Wishing his favorite bartender a happy birthday.
Look ma, no safety harness!
The air is super dry here. Many mornings I wake up feeling like a mummy. It takes a few cups of water and a shower to restore the moisture to my skin. The cool, dry air turns wet laundry into stiff laundry in a matter of hours. Check out Gavin's shirt standing up by itself on the table top.
Old man at Seomyeon station. Either he was blind or he truly didn't mind that I was photographing him from a distance of one foot.
He had these great big elongated ears. I liked the way the light caught his face and so I made a photograph.
Well, that about does it for this addition of SoKoNotes. For all of you who don't know, the link below will take you to the public folder of my iDisk where you can download soundbytes from Korea. The latest update, which will be made available a few minutes after I publish this, will be from my first day on the job. Yeah!
http://homepage.mac.com/fotonotes/FileSharing1.html
Peace. --Stephen
“SAAAAAAAAAYTAAAAAAAAAH!”
Ah, time to wake up and greet another day in sunny, freezing cold Korea!
It's getting harder and harder to get out of bed these days. My window has a serious draft, and the heater (an ingenious sub-floor hot-water convection system) spends most of the night fighting to keep the thermometer somewhere north of freezing. I've tried plugging the crack with shirts and the window curtains, but the relentless wind always manages to rip my barrier down and slip into my room while I am sleeping. I combat the thermodynamic theif with my 20-degree down sleeping bag and a thick quilt.
By morning I am as snug and toasty as a hibernating bear, and just as reluctant to leave my warm cocoon. The howling wind outside contributes to my fierce retisence to open my eyes. However, hunger and my bladder conspire against me and usually by the time the laundry lady can be heard clump-clump-clumping towards my wing of Dongsamjugong I'm up and stumbling towards the bathroom.
“SAAAAAAAAAYTAAAAAAAAAH!” Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm up already.
By the time I throw my door wide and enter the land of the living Gavin has been up for an hour and a half, plugging away at the internet, a steel REI mug in his hand and some Bach wafting into the living room. He shoots me this look like he's just seen a ghost.
“Please tell me today is a coffee day,” I growl out and disappear into the bathroom. Gavin laughs.
“Yeah, it is.” Thank God.
Fresh ground Sumatran is ludicrously expensive here, nearly twice what I'd pay Stateside for the same bag of coffee. To extend our stash Gavin and I only drink coffee every other day. On the off days we drink a dry, earthy green tea. It provides half the caffeine and none of the excitement one finds in a cup of dark, smooth Sumatran joe. I live for coffee day.
If it's not coffee day I'll try to wake myself up by taking a walk up Bongnaesan. Simply getting out the door is like jumping out of an airplane. The twenty-knot wind shakes and rattles the windows that line the hallway like an angry, rabid dog. I secure my hat to my head, cinch my hood closed, zip my Gore-tex jacket up to my chin, crank up my iPod and jam my gloved hands in my pockets.
The climb up Bongnaesan is a fat man's nightmare come to life. The grade will steal your breath. Even me, a 2003 Appalachian Trail Thru-hiker (my ego had to get that one in) looks up in stupor at the trail winding upwards from the streets of Young-do. By the time I've reached the top my hat, gloves, and jacket are all off and I'm sweating through my sweatshirt.
The view is worth it, though.
Most mornings I just can't muster the nerve to get out the door. Luckily, the lean Korean diet keeps me from gaining too much weight. I'd love to talk more about the food, but I'm saving that subject for an entire blog update. There is alot to talk about. Well, before I waste too much more time, here it is...
...Strait from the country that played Starcraft when they should have been studying for their English exam comes your favorite sayings, idiotic idioms and mistranslations: The Korean Files!
“I can turn reality into anything” (...With enough alcohol... - student notebook)
“Happy is he who desires what he may and does what he ought” (OK. What, exactly, am I allowed to desire? - Student notebook)
“Romantic Place: How you got me blind is still a mystery. I can't get you out of my head.” (You were also alot uglier until I was rendered sightless. -Student notebook)
“Have A Cool and Happy Thanksmoving” (The little-known holiday celebrated by the British commemorating when the Pilgrims left England. --Sweatshirt)
“Pinky Plinky Death” (...Makes for delicious Pinky Plinky soup. - Sweatshirt)
That was fun, wasn't it? If you just aren't getting enough wacky Asian mistranslation from SoKoNotes, you need to check out www.engrish.com. It's all the fun of SoKoNotes without the annoying guy spouting off useless opinions and posting photo after photo of random old women at busstops.
Oh, but that reminds me. The title of this week's update: Oh, You Mean There Are People Riding My Bus? The Many Species of Busan Bus Driver.
The cold weather mentioned earlier has rendered my motorcycle almost totally useless. Sure, the temperature climbs to a managable 40-degrees (No. Farenheit) in the daytime. I say manageable. The wind still finds and exploits every opening in my plastic and Goretex shell, and in the shade the temperature drops ten to fifteen degrees. At night, riding a motorcycle is to come to a new and horrible understanding of the word 'shrinkidge.' I have to park the bike and drive it home the next day.
So the bus has once again become my primary method of transportation. I actually think I can hear my parents sighing in relief from here. Golden bank tree leaves fill the engine compartment and cling to the spokes in my absence. Sometimes when I walk past it, I cast a sad glance towards the motorcycle, wondering if the cold will break soon so I can don my black helmet and streak through the city to parts unknown.
The bus is a poor stand-in for the motorcycle. It's warm, sure, but it's slow, often crowded, and I don't feel appreciably safer. After a long day of working at ESS there is nothing quite like clinging for dear life to a bar overhead while the driver whips the bus full of people through the streets of Busan like a child might drive an R.C. car. As these nightly trials have progressed, I have become the Charles Darwin of the Urban Jungle and started a bus driver classification system based on the severity and type of driving characteristic.
Ah-hmmm. The Origin of Species...Of Busdrivers In Busan.
Lurchers: There are buses that sway inexplicably from side to side like drunks. I'm not sure if this the driver's fault or some sort of problem with the bus' shock absorbers, but the drivers' general tendancy to drive erradically makes it worse.
Weavers: These are kind of like the lurchers, but this trait can be traced to the driver himself and not to any flaw with the bus. These guys behave like the only other vehicle they've ever driven was a motorcycle. They weave in and out of traffic, hog lanes, and dart rapidly to the curb to pick up passengers.
Slammers: Some drivers seem to know only two positions on the brake pedal: Off and pressed-to-the-floor. I've never had the laws of physics illustrated so forcefully for me as when I am on a Slammer's bus. So THAT'S what Conservation of Momentum feels like.
Jumpers: The opposite of Slammers. Now if only I had 100 won for every ajumma hurled into my arms...
Poppers: No desperate housewives here, only a tragic inability to properly operate a clutch. Busan's busses are old, manual transmission relics from the end of the last century. The worst Poppers can hurl people to and fro like waves turning shells on the shore.
Every now and then you get on a bus and you make it home without getting motion sickness. These good drivers are a rare species, driven to near extinction by pressure to be on what I assume is a very tight schedule. The good people of Busan often spruce up the difficult bus rides with their good heartedness. I cannot count the number of times a passenger sitting down has offered to hold my bags for me until either they or I got off the bus. The drivers are always polite and well-dressed and the busses are always clean and warm.
But I digress.
One of the peculiarities of teaching English is discovering how hard it is to learn English. It is a healthy alteration of perspective when you see how hard it is for someone to differentiate between an R and an L when their native language has neither. It reminds me of a joke a close friend of my father's used to tell about a Chinese restauranteer trying to say 'Fried Rice.' You can guess the punchline. I live it every day.
I teach the 5Ps on Fridays: Basically, the worst of the worst of the worst fifth graders at ESS. I started out with four students, but more and more join the class each week as their Korean teachers weed them out of the higher-level classes. Now I'm up to eight, and on the menu is nothing but meat and potatoes: ABCs, there is, that is, it is, colors, numbers, and simple vocabulary like 'cat.' Last week we studied foods.
I asked the kids what about their favorite foods. The vast majority listed fried rice (Kimchi jigae) as their top choice. To a child, they all spoke it incorrectly: Flied Lice. In Korean, there is a letter called 'leer' that is a difficult-to-pronounce combination of R and L. Try saying 'R' with the tip of your tongue shoved into the roof of your mouth and you'll just about have it. Sometimes it sounds like 'R' and sometimes it sounds like 'L,' depending on the word and the person speaking it. I generally pronounce it like an 'L' and no one corrects me.
To take a leer and split it apart can be confusing for the Korean children. So I give the 'flied lice' speech. I first diagram the 'L' and the 'R' on the chalkboard. Next I write 'fried rice' under the 'R' and draw a bowl of steaming fried rice. The children all scream and rub their stomachs and yell, 'Teach-uh give me. Give me!' Then under the 'L' I write 'flied lice' and draw a human head frowning with little insects jumping all over it. 'Rice' I say and point to the bowl of fried rice. 'Lice' I slowly enunciate while indicating the insects. The class goes silent for a moment and then the realization hits all the children at once. Their eyes light up in disgust and they hold their mouths and shake their heads.
“NOOOOOO, Teach-uh!”
At least for the rest of the class period they pronounce their R's and L's correctly. By next week they're back to their old habits again.
Well, there isn't a whole lot more to talk about from last week except how bloody cold it is and the complexities of learning the English language. On to the photographs.
The shops of Nampo-dong have been closing earlier in response to the colder weather. A month ago this alleyway was thick with people by this time of night. Now it's a good place to get jumped.
These ajummas extend their operational hours by covering their alleyway restaurants with plastic tarps and cranking up a space heater or two. They aren't partial to having their photographs made, as evidenced by the cold look I'm getting here, but they can whip up a plate of steaming, nutritious food in no time flat.
Oftentimes the people eating within the tent are a friendly lot. These men allowed me to photograph them and then they let all but forced me to partake of their food and share few shots of soju...Actually, five. The rest of that night is somewhat of a blur.
If you are in a rush and need something hot to eat, stop by a covered tent.
Gavin and I went to the Busan museum over the weekend. It was better laid out, cleaner and more English-friendly than other museums I have visited in Busan. I learned, for example, that the concrete bridge from young-do to Nampo-dong was made by the Japanese during the occupation between 1910 and 1945. The orange steel bridge that I cross every day to come into work was built by the Koreans.
The Koreans shared very nice relations with the Japanese for hundreds of years, as they were equally capable of kicking each other's butt. However, the British gave the Japanese firearms and unbalanced the equation late in the 19th century. The Japanese invaded and annexed Korea. They oppressed the population, enslaved the women, and built a few bridges before being evicted by the Americans in World War II.
I spotted this museum-goer and took a photograph.
Old men.
Pigeons.
Pigeons and old men, together. Yongdusan park.
The light is fabulous in the city.
Gavin and I went to the re-opened Ole' 55 bar Saturday night. They had a punk band come in and cover a few Beatles songs. They were skilled musicians, but terribly unoriginal in their style. This was their lead singer. When he wasn't singing, he was...
...Wishing his favorite bartender a happy birthday.
Look ma, no safety harness!
The air is super dry here. Many mornings I wake up feeling like a mummy. It takes a few cups of water and a shower to restore the moisture to my skin. The cool, dry air turns wet laundry into stiff laundry in a matter of hours. Check out Gavin's shirt standing up by itself on the table top.
Old man at Seomyeon station. Either he was blind or he truly didn't mind that I was photographing him from a distance of one foot.
He had these great big elongated ears. I liked the way the light caught his face and so I made a photograph.
Well, that about does it for this addition of SoKoNotes. For all of you who don't know, the link below will take you to the public folder of my iDisk where you can download soundbytes from Korea. The latest update, which will be made available a few minutes after I publish this, will be from my first day on the job. Yeah!
http://homepage.mac.com/fotonotes/FileSharing1.html
Peace. --Stephen
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